Blankets
by fee-kh
Summary: Oneshot. A small musing about Brennan's flat.


Disclaimer: Of course I do not own Bones. Wish I did. Cause I would never have introduced Camille. Darn her!

A/N: This is my first Bones fic ever and I have only seen six episodes, in German at that. But you can rejoice with me cause I just got the mail telling me amazon has shipped the Bones dvd set out today.

This fic is inspired by the way my bed looks at the moment. Not that! Be careful you don't hit the gutter on your way back up! You'll see what I mean.

A/N2: I am not quite happy with this (the characterisation seems a bit off), but maybe for a first effort? Let me know, please.

**Blankets**

As an anthropologist Temperance Brennan knew a thing or two about human nesting instinct and what your chosen environment said about you as a person. Looking around her flat as she packed her things for the last time a part of her ever analytical mind catalogued what her environment said about her.

The lounge looked well-used, couch chosen for comfort rather than looks. The papers she was then collecting had been strewn across every available surface. Not untidily, because that would never do. No, every stack had its place. Her work for the Jeffersonian was spread out on the rarely if ever used dining table. That made sense, as it often took up the most space. The notes and printed pages of her latest book were on the side table by the window, next to the board with the general outline of the plot. The same board that she had to hide from her colleagues and Booth due to their unending curiosity. And any work she did with the FBI was generally spread out on the low table in front of the couch.

Book cases covered the walls, filled not only with text books, but also souvenirs from her many travels overseas. They ranged from the eclectic to what a 'normal' person might consider morbid. Or at least Angela always said so.

One by one she packed them into moving crates. The little sugar skull used to decorate tombs on the Dia de los muertes in Mexico. The voodoo grisgris that had been a gift from Cuba. The replica of a shrunken head. A replica of a statue of Bastet. A Zulu love letter, the red, yellow and black beads shining as brilliantly then as the day she had got it. A delicately carved ostrich egg was packed in several layers of newspaper to protect it and was put next to a Ndebele fertility god.

In her eyes all her knickknacks made the room interesting and even Angela admitted that taken as a whole it had a curiously warm and welcoming atmosphere.

The kitchen was a different story entirely. Everything had its place. Efficiency above all. She had laid it out so the least number of movements was needed for getting everything ready in the morning and didn't use it for much else. Dinner was mostly takeout, when she remembered to come home from the institute that is. And then there were the nights she spent at Wong Foo's with the others. The place where her fridge had once been was still conspicuously empty, slight scorch marks visible on the surrounding cabinets and the wall. She didn't like coming in here, fantasising that she could still smell the acrid stench of the explosives. The irrationality of that bothered her more than she cared to admit. Logically she knew that Booth was okay now, he had survived, saved her life even, but every time she set foot in that room, images assaulted her of what might have been. So in true Brennan fashion she focussed on something she could control. With quick economical motions she stripped cabinets and drawers of their contents, boxing it away, some to keep and some to donate to the soup kitchen down the road. Each set of cutlery was neatly wrapped in newspaper and tied with a rubber band. She taped the boxes closed and printed 'KITCHEN' on the side.

The bathroom was dealt with even faster. She didn't have much in the way of toiletries. They just took up time in the morning. The time Angela found out, Brennan thought her friend would have a heart attack. After ranting for ten minutes how it was totally unfair that somebody who couldn't even be bothered to care was blessed with her complexion and looks, Angela had merely sighed heavily and stated that was probably par for the course as far as Brennan was concerned. Brennan frowned briefly as she remembered not having gotten round to googling that yet.

The pictures in the hallway were long gone, too. Probably already at their new location. Darker shadows on the walls still bore witness to the proofs that she lived and breathed. A solitary picture of her parents surrounded by large pictures of mountains and valleys, colours bold in the shadows of the hall. Now nothing brightened the darkness.

Finally she came to her bedroom. Angela had helped her pack her clothes that morning, so her steps took her straight to her vanity. Nobody but her touched her jewellery. As she removed pieces from their place and gently popped them into velvet bags, she mentally recounted what they meant to her. The thick red and gold choker she had worn the day Booth had stormed back into her life. The belt buckle her mother had worn the last time she saw her. It shone now, restored once again. Booth had done that for her. Her mother's earring, again brought back to her by Booth. A lot of her jewellery held associations with Booth.

The focus of the room was her queensize bed. She loved that bed. Piled high with pillows and blankets it was her one indulgence. Stepping up to it with a new box, she started stripping the sheets and blankets. First to come off was the heavy Tunisian camel blanket. So heavy it made it difficult to move at night. Folding it neatly she placed it at the bottom of the box. Next came a yellow fluffy blanket, slightly worn with age. That too was folded and placed on top of the other one. Brennan cocked her head to the side and regarded her bed from another angle. Angela had laughed out loud the first time she had seen it, prompting Brennan to defend herself. She needed fresh air at night, keeping her window wide open and nights got cold. The blankets stopped her from feeling cold.

One by one she stripped her bed of the sheets and blankets until only the mattress was left. Sighing she closed the box and took one last look around the room.

"Where is this one going, Bones?" Her partner's voice echoed through the now empty room. Turning, Brennan saw him pick up the box with all the blankets that kept her warm at night.

"That one goes in the attic." She smiled at him and followed him out the door. She wouldn't be needing the blankets anymore. Booth kept her much warmer in bed than they ever could.


End file.
